“Jim, you don’t need to set the scene,” Lila says.

“I literally said one sentence,” Jim says.

“Well, it was a run-on,” Lila says. “Just get to the point.”

“I would already be at the point, if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“Okay, so just tell me what happened,” Gary says.

“So I was just standing there, looking at the car, admiring it, and then this guy just came into focus, standing right behind the car, with his thing in the tailpipe, and you know, it’s been a long day, I thought I was hallucinating for a second. But then I yelled at him to get the hell out of here, and he bolted.”

Gary doesn’t look horrified, but Phoebe is learning that Gary never reacts wildly to any situation. It seems important to him, as a doctor, as the only parent, to be presented with a problem and immediately go on a search for a solution. Like okay, yes, the car was fucked, but luckily he had prepared for this.

“We should tell the front desk,” Gary says.

“What’s the front desk going to do?” Jim asks.

“Call the police!” Lila says.

“And say what, Help, someone fucked my car?” Jim asks.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t think you can fuck a car,” Phoebe says. She will die on this hill. “It’s a car. It can’t be fucked the way … a lawn mower can’t be fucked because it’s a lawn mower and not a living being.”

But Lila is not persuaded. She sits down on the velvet couch. Another thing ruined, just when she was starting to relax. She presses her fingers to her temples. Gary sits down next to her.

“I’m sort of having a panic attack,” Lila says.

“A real one? Or a figurative one?” Gary asks.

“A real one, Gary.”

But she doesn’t move or do anything at all. She just stoically shifts the hair out of her eyes. Reframes the veil around her face. The world’s classiest panic attack.

“What can I do?” Gary asks.

“I need you to ask Pauline for a different car,” Lila says.

“A new car?” Jim asks. “Why? That car is perfect.”

“The car has been fucked, Jim!” Lila says, but it’s Gary who flinches. “I can’t take that thing to our wedding, knowing what happened to it.”

“I mean, technically, the car is kind of the victim here,” Jim says.

“I am the victim here,” Lila says sternly.

Nobody speaks. Jim looks at Gary with raised eyebrows. But Gary doesn’t return the expression. Doesn’t say a word. Just puts his arm around her like he did when Juice melted down on the wharf.

“Okay,” Gary says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.” Lila adjusts her veil again, as if this will transform her back into the relaxed and happy bride who had not yet walked into the lobby. “I need to go get dressed for my bachelorette party.”

Lila walks away into the elevator. Jim and Gary and Phoebe all look at one another.

“Jim, why did you tell her that?” Gary asks.

“Because it happened!”

“Lila doesn’t need to know every single thing that goes wrong.”

“She’s not a child.”

“I know she’s not a child,” Gary says. “She’s an adult who is now stressed out for no reason. Like she would have even known?”

“She’d find out eventually.”

“How? No. She really wouldn’t have.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jim says. “I’ll handle it.”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Gary says.

“Fine, I’ll go back outside. See if I can find this pervert.”

Jim leaves Gary and Phoebe alone in the lobby. The groom and the maid of honor, left to handle the situation, and it gives Phoebe the feeling that they are Lila’s parents now.

“I honestly still don’t get it, though,” Phoebe says. “Is the tailpipe even the right size for that?”

“I guess it depends on the guy.”

“I guess he’d have to have like … used his hand first and then go into it?”

“Because you can’t like, use it as a…”

“No.”

“Shit.”

They laugh. Lila’s grandmother walks in.

“Gary,” Bootsie says, and she hands him a Tupperware container full of clear liquid.

For a second, Gary looks horrified, like it might be a urine sample.

“It’s a gimlet,” Bootsie says. “Can you make sure this gets to the Breakers for the reception?”

“Of course,” Gary says. “But that’s days away, Bootsie. And you know they can make you a gimlet at the wedding.”

“I make it a rule not to trust anything that comes out of the Breakers,” she says. “And nobody makes it like my guy. He’s only had forty years of practice. And who are you, my dear?”